Rites of Passage
by AllieGee
Summary: Before they were the Misfits, teenage Phyllis Gabor, Mary Phillips, and Roxanne Pelligrini all had one thing in common. They were motherless when it mattered most.


**Rites of Passage**

**Matilda Stern**

**August 12, 1975**

"I'm not gonna sugar-coat nothin'!" I'd said at my interview. "I'm a maid. What I do is, I clean the house. You want somethin' done different, you tell me. Other than that, we leave each other alone. Understand? That's how I work! You don't like it, then I'm not for you."

I sneered, to show I meant business.

"You're hired," said Harvey Gabor, as he reached across the table to shake my hand. "How soon can you start?"

I started the next day. I polished priceless antiques for hours on end. The mansion went on and on. I could clean 'round the clock and still only finish half a wing each day.

The problem?

The "lady" of the house, thirteen-year-old Phyllis.

I was taller than her, but she managed to look down her nose at me. "Matilda, is it? Daddy said you were new. Maids don't usually last long here."

The slender snooty girl lifted an antique plate off a stand and dropped it at my feet. "Clean it up," Phyllis snapped, tossing her long curtain of straight green hair behind her as she trotted off to the pool, "or I'll tell Daddy what a terrible job you're doing!"

She was a bitch! But she was about to learn that so was I!

Oh, I cleaned up the plate! But this game went on all day. Phyllis would leave a mess, and I would be forced to find it and clean it up – on top of making the usual rounds!

Talk about a spoiled brat.

Harvey gave that child whatever she wanted. And the mother? Nowhere to be seen. I never heard what happened there. If I had to venture a guess, the woman probably saw she'd birthed some kind of a demon-spawn and headed for the hills.

Yep, I'm sure of it!

I didn't think much about it. All I knew was, by Day 2 of my new job, Phyllis' games were getting old.

If I wasn't making 50K as a maid, I'd have walked out right then, but what can I say – money talks!

Those first couple days on the job were spent playing Phyllis' games. And there's another thing! Even when she wasn't doing it to torment ME, she'd throw temper tantrums and create messes and destruction just for the hell of it!

Rotten girl.

Her shriek cuts me to my very core! I don't know how that Harvey deals with her.

Oh – right.

He doesn't.

Just lets her do whatever she wants to!

She has the run of the house!

And her electric guitar! She's got it plugged into an amp, and she goes off and plays it at the highest decibel. She's no good at playing the damn thing. To make matters worse, she "sings" along. By singing, I mean, she screams at the top of her lungs!

I've learned to live with a perpetual headache in this house.

Of course, it's August, so I don't even get a break from the racket because she isn't in school at the moment!

So I'm going about my business – my first week on the job, and I hear that shriek I've already gotten used to; Phyllis is screaming about one thing or another.

I went to have a look to see what that wretched child had gotten herself to.

I'm a little surprised to find it's the bathroom.

This time I'm wise to her. I yell right back at her: "Phyllis," I say, "whatever the hell you're doing in there, I want nothing to do with it!"

"Matilda?" she says. There's a weird sound to her voice. Could it be…. she's grateful that I've come to the door?

"Yeah, what?!" I shout. "Who'd you expect? President Ford?!"

There are some sounds from behind the door. No good can come of this!

"I… I need your help," says Phyllis.

Ah, I'm sure this is a trap!

"MY help? Cleanin' up some ungodly mess you left for me? I'm not falling for it, kid, so get lost!" I shout. Serves her right.

Her voice is so strange when she says, "Do you know where to get maxi-pads around here?"

I didn't say anything.

I pushed open the door without knocking. Phyllis was mortified, looking like Christmas with her green hair and bright red cheeks.

I smiled at her. "Oh, hello Phyllis! You said something about maxi-pads?"

Phyllis scrambled to grab a towel to cover her lap. Her God-awful yellow hot-pants were still around her ankles. "What the hell, Matilda!" she shrieked.

I cupped my hand behind my ear. "What was that you said? 'Dear sweet Matilda, I need a favor, and I'll never give you a hard time again if you get me some maxi-pads'? Is that what I heard?"

Phyllis rolled her eyes. "Something like that."

"You don't have maxi-pads around here somewhere?!"

And that's when Phyllis started to stammer. "This never… it's my first…"

Hot damn! I've got her right where I want her. "Stay put, girlie. I'm goin' to the store!"

(Not like she had anywhere better to be!)

I took my time at the store. I bought just what Phyllis needed.

When I returned, I opened the bathroom door and waved a package of Stayfree maxi-pads above my head. "Okay kiddo. You gonna leave me alone from here on out?"

Phyllis frowned and didn't say anything.

I turned and walked out the door.

"WAIT!" screamed a desperate Phyllis.

"I'm waiting," I said. A kid stuck on the toilet is in no position to cut a deal!

"FINE. I'll leave you alone," she sulked.

I tossed the package at Phyllis, satisfied when it hit her in the head, and walked out.

Later that day, I went into Harvey's home office to vacuum. Harv doesn't even acknowledge me or my vacuum! I have to shout at him for him to even flinch, and only then I can ask him to lift his feet so I can vacuum under them.

Pain in the ass!

So while I'm in there finishing the dusting I watch Phyllis come into Harv's office. She stands right next to his desk. She's in the same unsightly halter-top she's had on all day, but now she's swapped her yellow hot-pants for a denim mini-skirt. I can only hope the hot-pants were a casualty of young Phyllis' coming-of-age. If not, well, I'll just have to see to it they don't make it out of the laundry room.

"Daddy?" Phyllis said softly, tracing the edge of his desk with a painted fingernail.

He ignored her. Oh well – I guess I can't take it personally!

She tried again. "Daddy, today I got my…"

After a moment, Harvey looks up. "Oh. Hello, Phyllis. Did you say something?"

She looked down at her ridiculous platform shoes. "Nothing."

Harvey is back to his paperwork. "Okay, honey," he says as she slinks out of the room.

Wow. Even I felt a little bad for her!

Something even stranger happened later that day.

Phyllis was kind of hovering in one of the living rooms where I was busy dusting. After a while I turned to her.

"Scram, kid, I thought we had an agreement here! You gonna leave me alone now?"

Phyllis scowled at me then went back to what she was doing. She'd lifted a silver picture frame off the mantle. I was bracing myself, fully expecting her to throw it to the floor. Instead, she took a good long look at it before setting it carefully down and drifting out of the room.

It was the quietest I'd ever seen her, and let me tell you – I was stunned.

Her silence is louder than her loudest screech.

Of course as soon as the coast was clear, I moved toward the mantle to see what the fuss – or lack thereof – was about.

I recognized Harvey in the photograph right away. He didn't look all that different. His arm was draped formally around his noticeably younger wife. Her face looked so much like Phyllis. They looked a little stiff and posed, but they were outside on a sunny day. The wife held a sweet-faced toddler in her arms.

It made me wonder – what the hell went wrong there?

* * *

**Craig Phillips**

**September 21, 1977**

Like always, I was outside the junior high when the bell rang. I leaned against the tree we'd chosen as our meeting spot, and watched as the kids poured down the cement steps of the building. I waited till I saw my sister's blue head of hair. Like all the girls, she wears it parted in the middle, all feathered like Farrah Fawcett. She gets up even earlier than I do (and I'm up early enough for my five-mile run!) just to style her hair! I give her a hard time for it.

I'm her brother; that's my job.

Unlike all the rest of the girls, Mary's got a flower tucked behind her ear. She's worn one just like it her whole life.

Mary's usually bouncing down the stairs; she always smiles and waves when she sees me. But today's different. She looks sullen. I'm already wondering what horrible thing could have happened at school.

"Hey, Mare!" I said trying to be nice.

"Hi," she says.

"What's a matter, kid? The math test-?"

"It was fine. I did okay."

"What's eating you, then?" I elbowed her lightly.

"I don't feel well."

"Oh, is that all?!"

"Shut up, Craig!"

"What's wrong?"

"Don't know. My stomach hurts."

"And you're surprised?! The way you eat? Jesus, Mary. You had ice cream for breakfast again, didn't you?"

"Shut UP, Craig. I did not!"

"Yeah? Well, when's the last time you got any fiber in your diet?"

Mary frowned and glared at me.

"You're probably all backed up! For a balanced breakfast, you should have a protein, a fruit, whole grains—"

"I'm not in the mood for another one of your lectures," she groaned, so I dropped it. She was shuffling along beside me and she looked exhausted.

"Listen, you've just gotta walk it off!" I trotted beside Mary in a light jog.

Mary rolled her eyes. Unlike me, she hates exercising.

I was hoping she'd at least crack a smile. No such luck.

We made it home with hardly another word between us. Oh well. I tried.

She threw her schoolbooks on a chair, dashed up the stairs and disappeared into the bathroom.

I went right into the music room and took a seat behind my drumkit, and started to pound out the beat to Fleetwood Mac's "Go Your Own Way." I'd heard it earlier and couldn't get it out of my head. I was working it out for maybe twenty minutes, completely in my own headspace.

I almost missed the sound of my sister calling my name. Almost.

"Craig? Craig?! CRAIG!" Mary's voice was escalating in shrillness.

I set my sticks down when I heard her. Christ, was she still in the bathroom? I got up and called in to her. "What's up, Mary?"

Crying. She was crying in there. "Craig! Something's… happening to me."

I dragged my hand through my hair. I had a bad feeling about this. "You want me to come in there?"

"Okay," she said in a small voice.

I opened the door slowly, only a few inches. A few inches too many!

Mary's sitting on the john, with her face wet with tears. Her skirt's covering everything, but her underwear's around her ankles and that's how I see the red stain…

Let me tell you, no brother should have to see that! No man even!

"Holy fuckin' shit, Mary!" I shouted, slamming the door shut.

I heard her wail.

My little baby sister. She was what? Twelve years old? Was this normal?!

She was just a kid. She still crawled into bed with me when she had a bad dream, or when she was missing Mom. It didn't seem like that long ago that she fell on the playground and I cleaned the gravel out of her knee. Now, a skinned knee I can handle… THIS was something else entirely!

I'd asked myself over the years, again and again, why Mom had to die. But believe me, on this day, I asked myself – why couldn't she have hung on just long enough so that Dad and I didn't have to face this alone!?

"Craig?" came Mary's voice, tiny and scared. "What should I do?" "Sorry, sorry, Mare. I dunno. I'm gonna call Dad. Hang on, okay?"

So it took a while to get Dad on the phone like usual. He was working on a construction site, so there wasn't exactly a phone right there. I told Dad's boss there was a family emergency.

Stop laughing – there was! Finally! Dad picked up. "Craig?! There's an emergency? Where's Mary?"

My voice was just as panicked as Dad's. "She's in the bathroom. Dad, it's terrible! Mary got her period!"

Silence.

"Dad? Dad! You there?"

"Yeah. I can hear you, son. Are you sure?!"

"I saw… with my own eyes!" I said, horrified.

"You what? Oh, God! I don't even want to know!"

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about it?!"

"Don't you have any friends? Female friends you can call for her?"

"Gross, no, Dad! Talk about embarrassing!"

After another pause, Dad finally answered. "Can you run next door? The Briggs couple that just moved in? That lady seems really nice."

"I'll go there right now. Mary's… all upset. This sucks, Dad!"

"I know. I'll be home soon."

"Okay."

"And Craig? Be nice to her."

"Yeah, yeah, Dad."

Like I said, I run every morning, five miles. I'm the fastest guy on the baseball team. But I've _never _moved so fast as when I sprinted over to the Briggs' house!

I knocked on the door and was grateful when Mrs. Briggs answered, even though I'd barely met her. I noticed they were still living out of boxes that Mrs. Briggs seemed to be in the midst of unpacking. "Um, hi. I'm Craig Phillips from next door," I said. "We have a crisis going on. Do you know anything about periods?"

Mrs. Briggs looked at me like I was crazy. "Where's your mother, Craig?"

"Dead. She's dead."

Her face changed when I said that.

I told her what happened, and waited patiently as she gathered a bag of supplies. She followed me back to the house and I showed her where the bathroom was, where Mary had been stranded for nearly an hour now.

Mrs. Briggs tapped lightly on the door. "Mary, honey? I'm Annie Briggs, from next door. Can I come in?" She disappeared behind the door.

I heard Mary; she was still crying. "I want my Mama!" she wept.

Of course she wanted our Mom for this moment. Not Mrs. Briggs. Surely not Dad and definitely not me!

I went back to my drumming because I didn't want to get involved in the ladyfest going on.

When I heard Dad get home, I came downstairs. Mary was lying on the couch where Mrs. Briggs had set her up with an electric heating pad on her belly.

Dad scooped Mary up into a hug and kissed the top of her head. "Congratulations, sweetie," he said (whatever that meant). He handed her a bouquet of daisies, which made her smile a little. He brought home a pizza, one of Mary's favorite junk foods, and we had dinner.

Across the table I looked at my sister. Guess it was time to admit she wasn't eight years old anymore. How'd I miss that thing where her chubby little-kid cheeks gave way to high cheekbones? Where she went from cute to _pretty_?

"Quit it," Mary said, looking pointedly at me after Dad got up from the table.

"Quit what?"

"Quit starin' at me like I'm some kind of weirdo." She got up and started out of the room, but I followed her.

I stopped her. "I'm sorry, Mare. I suck at this stuff."

"I know," she said, letting me fold her into a hug. "I wish…" she trailed off, her voice muffled into my shoulder.

"I wish Mom was here too," I said.

Later that night, as I tried to fall asleep, I heard a little tap on my bedroom door. It was Mary.

"I can't sleep, Craig," she said, like she'd done so many times before. "Can I…?"

I looked at her and I didn't know what to say. So instead, I just said, "Mary, you can't – not anymore. It's… different now."

"Never?" My sister looked like I'd slapped her across the face.

I tried to be diplomatic. "I don't think so. You're too grown up now. It's not right."

"I don't feel very grown up."

"Jesus, Mary, you have tits now!" I blurted out.

A tear rolled down her cheek. She finally whispered, "I didn't – I didn't want this."

I felt like a jerk.

"I'm sorry," she wept.

_She_ was sorry? _I_ was the one who should be sorry.

What would Mom do?

"Hey – don't cry. Wanna jam? For just a little bit? Till you get tired?"

She sniffed and nodded, and we made our way to the music room in the basement. I put the silencers on my drums and Mary tuned Dad's acoustic guitar. And for a while it was me and Mary, playing music, just like normal.

* * *

**Sister Ruth McAllister**

**May 15, 1978**

St. Joseph's Ministry in South Philadelphia has been my home for the last twenty years and I wouldn't have it any other way. We run a Women's and Children's Shelter in the basement of the church, and I work with the youth.

It's heartbreaking work.

It's uplifting work

It's the Lord's work.

These children matter, even whey they don't think they do. Each of them makes an impression on me, but every so often there's someone special…

Roxanne was one of them. Belligerent, rude, fourteen-year old Roxanne. She was a lot like me when I was her age!

She showed up on the church steps sitting on a beat-up bass guitar case. She was painfully thin, and I invited her into our soup kitchen. I asked her when she had last eaten a hot meal.

She said, "What's it to you?" and then ate two platefuls of beef stew as though she'd never seen food before. Bless her.

She lived with us for almost three years, on and off.

In the beginning, it was impossible to get through to her. I'd try. "I love music," I'd say to her. "We could sure use your gifts in the church. What d'you say?"

Roxanne would just hunch over that beat-up old bass and plunk out some pop song or another. At first she'd say (pardon my French!) "Fuck you!" I could tell when she'd grown to like me, because then she'd say, "I'm busy." Bless her.

Roxanne came and went, but when she was fifteen I saw a lot of her. She didn't have anywhere else to go, or so I'd assumed, and the church made sure she had a cot to sleep on, hot food, and a shower. As I got to know her more I'd sometimes try to ask about her circumstances, but she was proud. She never said a word. I just had to pray that she would triumph over whatever had led her to seek refuge at St. Joe's.

She got taller that year, so I made sure to sneak some better-fitting jeans to her from the parish clothing drive. I didn't want to embarrass the girl, but I made sure when the time came that she got some proper undergarments, too.

I went to the department store and picked out a simple pink bra, taking my best guess at size. I didn't say anything, but left it folded up in tissue paper on top of Roxanne's cot.

It was around that time she said to me, "Sister Ruth? You're pretty cool for a nun."

Bless her.

Sometimes when she was just milling around, she'd help me do different tasks. Polishing the chalices, ironing the choir robes. She seemed interested in having something important to do. She had a short fuse, though, so I had to be careful what tasks I gave her. A distant look in her eye, followed by a burst of anger would yield another iron-shaped hole burnt through one of Father Gregory's vestments.

When Roxanne was staying with us, there was no shortage of memorable moments. One Wednesday afternoon I found her bent over the Baptismal Font with a bottle of peroxide, bleaching her hair! ("Hey, sister!" she screamed joyfully. "Whaddaya think?!") She showed me her new Debbie Harry inspired platinum tresses proudly.

As I'd later said to Father Gregory, at least Roxanne had the good graces to wait until after Morning Rosary was over. Father was not as amused as I was. I can just remember him shaking his head as we drained and scrubbed out the Font. "Sister Ruth, it's a special person with a certain sense of humor who can work with our youth," he sighed.

He was probably right, but I wasn't ready to admit it just yet. It would be Roxanne who would ultimately teach me that.

For instance, a few weeks later, I heard a rustling coming from behind the apse, and I went to investigate. Father Gregory had begun to suspect we had a mouse, because occasionally there were Communion hosts missing from the tabernacle, and some suspicious crumbs in the area.

Well, the rustling wasn't a mouse at all. It was Roxanne.

"Sisser Roof!" she said, her mouth full of wafers. She swallowed. "You got any cheese to go with these crackers? They're kinda dry."

"Roxanne! Those are the Body of Christ!" I said, in shock.

"Well, He's kinda dry," she said with a shrug. "Besides, I got hungry."

"I'll get you a better snack from the pantry," I said, putting my arm around the girl's slight shoulders. Only then did we both burst out laughing.

Another trial came for me in the middle of the night. Roxanne stumbled through the vestibule well after midnight. "BALLS!" she shouted, the word resounding through the (thankfully empty) church. She tossed herself down on a pew in the chapel and examined her hands.

I ran over to see what was the matter. Roxanne had blood on her knuckles and a black eye.

"Heavens!" I cried out, ushering her to the women's restroom to clean her up. I rubbed soap and warm water into a cloth and started wiping Roxanne's hands gently. "What's happened to you?"

"Fight," she said simply.

I started to warn Roxanne about the dangers of fighting, about how those friends she called the "Red Aces" were probably not a very good influence on her.

Roxanne just broke into a huge grin. "You shoulda seen the other guy, sister! I got him pretty good."

But out of all the trials Roxanne put me through, there was one night I'll never forget. She was asleep on her cot. Or so I thought.

I was staying up late, doing the day's laundry; I was folding vestments when I heard my name.

"Sister Ruth! Sister Ruth!" It was Roxanne, her voice an urgent whisper. I saw her skidding through the church, aided by a pair of white tube socks with blue stripes, pulled up to her knobby knees. An oversized men's tee shirt topped off Roxanne's ensemble, fitting her like a nightgown.

"Roxanne! It's after midnight!" I said.

"Sister Ruth, I need something."

"What is it?"

She looked at her stocking feet and said, barely audible, "I need you to pray for me."

I think I nearly laughed. "I always pray for you, Roxanne. Now tell me – what's going on?"

Roxanne's eyes finally met mine. This tough-as-nails child who had survived only-God-knows-what had tears in her eyes. "I'm dying, sister," she wept.

"You're what?!" I hugged her and she let me. My mind raced with all the terrible things that could happen to the street kids we take in – drug addiction, gang violence, prostitution. Sick kids, pregnant kids.

My heart ached. This wasn't just any kid. This was "my" Roxanne. I scolded myself for having a favorite. Of course I love them all. But, like I said, Roxanne had touched my heart.

And here she was, crying in my arms.

"Tell me again – what happened?" I said again, as calmly as I could. Lord, grant me the serenity!

"I'm dying, Sister Ruth," she gulped, wiping her face. "I'm bleeding."

I looked at her and she seemed fine. "What? Where?" We'd had kids crawl up the church steps, stabbed from street fights. St. Joe's isn't exactly in the best part of town. I braced myself for the bad news, prayed for the strength to be calm and to know what to do.

Roxanne lowered her voice to a whisper. Well, as much of a whisper as that big-voiced girl can muster. (The Lord has indeed given her a gift!) Her eyes were huge when she said, "I went to the bathroom. And I'm bleeding… _down there_ and it's not stopping!"

Realization hit me.

Roxanne had become a woman.

"Oh, dear girl! Dear, dear girl!" I said, hugging her. "You're fine. You're better than fine!"

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, sister?!" Roxanne snapped, still very much upset. She caught herself and covered her mouth. "Sorry."

Sure, I knew they covered this stuff in school. The girls got a lecture about menstruation, and all of that. But I was smart enough to know that even though Roxanne came and went from St. Joe's during the day, she hadn't been going to school. (Try as I might to convince her to go!) No doubt this was going to be a crash course.

"You're not dying, Roxanne. I promise you. What's happening is normal and healthy. It means you're not a girl anymore, you're a lady!"

"I don't believe you. Bleedin' from my c—"

"Shh, shh!" I hushed her up. She knew some words that could make me blush! I hurried her to the ladies' room and showed her what to do. I could tell she'd never seen feminine products, but somehow knowing there were products for this purpose seemed to help her understand this was something normal. Something that happened to healthy women. She started to calm down.

"So this means I'm healthy, huh?" Roxanne pondered as we walked away from the ladies' room.

"Very healthy," I said.

She shook her head.

She muttered something under her breath. Something that to this day I'm not sure I heard right.

"The last time I was bleedin' there I wasn't very healthy at all."

I crushed Roxanne into a hug, this child – this _woman _– who I'd always known had seen unspeakable things. And I prayed for her as I always did – and still do.

Bless her.

Bless her.

* * *

~Fin.~

Thanks to Zeroninety for being a super beta reader!


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